


maybe in another lifetime

by winchesters



Series: maybe in another lifetime [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Suicide, dumb french hunks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:29:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesters/pseuds/winchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe, Grantaire thinks, in another lifetime things might have been different. Prompt: Grantaire wakes up after the Revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe in another lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Day 234: I am still obsessed with these dumb french hunks. So I write about their tragic and untimely deaths.

In which Grantaire wakes up after the revolution. 

 

He cannot remember anything but red and when he opens his eyes he sees only blood. The floor is slick with it, and he sees bodies but he can’t make out whose they are. Dusk is falling outside, and in the pale light he sees Courferyac’s face belongs to one of the corpses. There is a bullet hole in the side of his head. Grantaire walks slowly to him, crouches. His eyes are open, amber eyes, staring straight into nothing. His hand has fallen, limply, a few inches from Joly. Grantaire fights back a wave of nausea as he sees their mortal wounds. Joly, who so feared illness and injury, torn apart by bullets from a floor below. Combeferre, the wonderful, stoic, unmoving center...god, not Combeferre. Such a gentle man, a good-hearted man. They are here. Where is their leader? Could it be...could it be? Grantaire staggers to his feet, his heart bursting, selfishly, terribly, with hope. It dies when he sees the boot, scuffed, the toe curling from the sole, in the window.   
He wants to die when he sees the body. He never imagined, never in all of eternity, that he would want to die upon seeing another man’s corpse. And yet. And yet. They left him there, the bastards. Didn’t even cut him down. Grantaire, fueled by a half-drunk rage, hauls the corpse up from where it dangles over the street below like some sick warning.   
Enjolras.   
My god, he’s beautiful, even in death. A terrible beauty, a tragic beauty. The red flag is still clenched in his fist, as though he had clung to the revolution even as he tumbled backwards from the window. Grantaire wants to vomit, wants to scream. He cannot. His voice does not work properly. He tries to cry but all that comes out is a whimper. It is growing dark, dusk settling golden across the corpses on the floor. Grantaire cleans the blood from Enjolras’ face, his marble skin, his golden hair gone red with the sticky crimson. How many bullets? Eight, maybe nine. Maybe more. Enough to leave holes. Grantaire wants to close them, but he can’t. He throws himself across Enjolras, lowers his spinning head to the other man’s red, red chest. He weeps, suddenly, his eyes dry, ragged sobs scraping his throat dry. He cries for Enjolras, for Les Amis, for himself. He cries for the days that have been and the days that will never be. 

 

Light breaks like a bull through the open window, golden fingers creeping in to pry Grantaire into the world of the living. There is a warm spot on Enjolras’ chest where Grantaire has curled, pathetically, into the dead man. His eyes hurt, he cannot cry anymore. The treachery of men has shattered him. There is a dead guard on the stairs, he silently retrieves the pistol. Wonders, briefly, if this is the one that shot Combeferre or Joly or Courferyac or Enjolras. He goes to the leader’s side, kneels, one hand carding through the golden curls. Enjolras’ eyes are open. He had faced death openly, unafraid. He was always the brave one. Grantaire readies the pistol. He laces his fingers with Enjolras’. They are cold and stiff and he makes himself pretend they are not.   
“Maybe, my dear, in another lifetime,” he says, and his voice is quiet and broken and his heart hurts, oh how badly it aches for everything that could never be. He cocks the trigger. He pulls. There is pain. And then there is nothing but darkness.


End file.
